Borderline
by Riddlehum
Summary: "It's... more than just a hallucination. As if he's living on an entirely different plane of existence." "John again." Not a question, an observation. "May I see him, Mr Holmes?" Oneshot, AU.


**Disclaimer: Official property of the Moff, Godtiss, and Sir AC Doyle.**

Not exactly sure where this even came from, but - enjoy?

****NOTICE:** This is meant to be a **oneshot**... an indulged plotbunny, lol. I highly doubt that anything more will come out of it. But thanks for the story alerts all the same, I guess! This was really just something AU, to make you **think**. So think about it! It's fun to think! (And I blame _Kafka on the Shore_ for this, actually. Talk about alternate reality dream-sequences within alternate reality dream sequences... THE ORIGINAL DREAMCEPTION.)

((Yes. That's a hint.))

* * *

"He's been at it again."

The release of a heavy sigh. Weary and exhausted to the point of aching. _Vulnerable. _He continues, "All night, actually. He's completely entangled."

"John, again." Not a question, but an observation. "This is third consecutive week since the relapse."

"Yes. I don't know what to do. It seems we've tried everything, Professor, but simply nothing is getting through."

A pause. "Has he shown any signs of recognising your presence?"

"Only briefly, early this evening. Not for hours, after that. It's as if I'm not even there. It's... _more_ than just a hallucination. As if he's living on an entirely different plane of existence."

Another pause. Longer, this time. The stillness is contemplative - but dead. Empty. A void of blackness and silence.

But then: a soft knock on the door to the study.

"Excuse me, Professor. Come in, Mrs Hudson."

The door nudges open. A small woman pushes into the room, her posture bent with age and worry, bearing a cheerily malapropos tray of tea. There are no biscuits, tonight: they are always left untouched in these dark meetings.

"Any luck?" he asks her, glancing at the professor across from him. She shakes her head, lips tightly pursed - the only sign of her otherwise suppressed tension. He nods back, having not expected the converse to be true. But the information is like a crumpled page thrown into a metal bin with no bottom. The walls echo with impact, but the reverberation is the only feeling. Only the emptiness, the hollowness. He is a Hollow Man. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

She exits the room with little bustle, the door closing with a muted click. They all tread softly these days, move delicately - as if they are afraid that a sudden movement may jostle the fragile balance of peace in the air. If it may even be called _peace_.

The professor lifts a cup from its saucer and drinks deeply. Then quietly, in his supple voice, he asks, "Would you like me to speak to him, Mr Holmes?"

He takes an extra moment to respond. "No." He twitches - one finger tensing against his knee. He is very suddenly unnerved by this notion. "No, I... I don't think it wise."

The professor leans forward, his expression that of a parent imploring a child to abandon his petty insolence. "Mycroft..." His voice is soft and slightly muffled, like black velvet. "May I see him?"

"No." This time it's firm. Possibly even hostile. _Protective_. "Actually, I think this meeting has gone on long enough. It's been a very long day..."

Neither man moves, despite the observation's acute suggestion, and they study each other with looks of practised dispassion. He finishes, "...I would like to savour what little of the night remains, Professor."

The professor takes his time reacting, boldly maintaining eye contact as he drinks once more from the teacup in his hand. When it is empty, he carefully returns the cup to its saucer, brushes imaginary crumbs from his pants, and straightens the cuffs of his sleeves. Then with painstaking slowness, he rises from his chair. He is not very tall, but he is compact - concentrated - a storm cloud compressed into a puff of smoke.

"Very well, Mr Holmes." A hand reaches up, as if self-conscious, to smooth back the imaginary hairs that have fallen out of place. "Don't hesitate to call me if you have a... change of heart."

The phrase hangs obliquely in the stillness. Then,

"Good _night_, Professor Moriarty."

The professor smiles, baring the smallest of glimpses of his long white teeth, and nods. He slides his hands into the pockets of his Westwood trousers.

"Good night, Mr Holmes."

And he exits, stepping silently towards the door, and disappears with the fluidity of a shadow.

Mycroft stares coldly - emptily - at the space the other man has just vacated on the seat across from him. His own cup of tea is untouched, going cold.

He doesn't go up to bed until very early the next morning.

* * *

Upstairs, a young man with dark curls and bright eyes lays on his back on the soft sofa, staring up at the ceiling, his palms together, folded as if in prayer beneath his chin. The corners of his mouth are quirked upwards - the sign of his utmost contentment. He is drowsy, sleepy from this contented warmth. Lazy, even. They have just solved their latest case, and now he is enjoying the warm sensation of adrenaline leaving his system. The relaxation after the release. He relishes it, knowing that it will not last. As it never does, not nearly long enough...

He continues his side of the coversaton, gaze not deviating from the ceiling.

"Oh, naturally, John. Don't be so obvious."

"_Yes_, obvious. That bit of dirt on your soles tells me you've been down to Tescos. And the smell. Rain and an eastern wind. You walked. Did you bring the milk?"

"Oh, good."

"...I don't _guess_, John. Of _course_ I saw."

"Must I constantly stare at you to see you?"

"Now you're just being petty."

He straightens up, suddenly, miffed. The adrenaline is back, a quick flash, and it's as cold as ice. "There is _nothing_ petty about-"

"It's a valid concern!"

"Well, of _course_ I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand." His mental clairty is again receeding, and he is growing colder. His body is stiffening, joints arthritic, bones like metal. Cold and hollowed out. The adrenaline is gone, the _warmth_ is gone; vanished like steam, dissipated like a dream. Now the sensation of boredom is setting in, his mind is becoming sluggish...

"Yes, you are. You _all_ are." It's acidic. His mood is darkening again, as it always does. This is his pattern, but he knows he could not stop it if he wanted to. It is how he feels, and it always happens this way. Always _ends_ this way.

"If it _bothers_ you so much, then why don't you _blog_ about it."

He closes his eyes, inwardly battling the urge to sleep, but all the same settles deeper into the couch cushions.

"Yes, John, naturally."

"_Obviously_."

"Fine."

He hears a door slam, and a dead silence follows. And then, just like that, he is asleep.

Dreams engulf him. The voices are back, the smoky figures with distorted faces. There always two figures present, sometimes three: a man and a woman, older than he, and another that seems more shadow than man. Sometimes there is a young woman, who sits and whispers to him, but he can rarely remember what she says. Her words are nonsensical, like the gibberish of a small child. Sometimes he thinks he can remember who they are, but not tonight. Tonight they are smoke slipping through his fingers. He often grows bored of them, but they are always there. He has grown to accept them. Goes along with them. He knows and takes comfort in that he will soon be awake - will soon be delivered back to reality, where everything makes sense and where his mind can properly think. These dreams are a plague, but one he has always suffered. _That which always hurts feels no pain_.

He also knows that John will return, and at this he smiles vaguely in his sleep. John always returns. They run, they solve, they laugh, they fight. John is his best friend. Only friend. Always there. _Always comes back_.

Sherlock slips off the edge into the vague familiarity of the abyss of his dreams, wondering distantly if he will reach the bottom this time around.


End file.
